


Taking It

by nothingamonth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Porn, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Steve Rogers, Creepy Brock Rumlow, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Rope Bondage, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sex Toys, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8365789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingamonth/pseuds/nothingamonth
Summary: Bucky Barnes left the cold New York winters for balmy LA weather hoping to become an actor, ever-faithful best friend and lover Steve Rogers in tow.  As it turns out, there aren't enough big breaks to go around, and the boys find themselves doing things in front of a camera they never imagined.
It's ten years later and they have carved out a successful niche market in the porn industry.  Steve is great with his hands and rope, and Bucky is great with Steve.  But when Steve starts receiving odd letters from a 'fan,' and Bucky ignites an intense rivalry with co-star Brock Rumlow, things get complicated.





	1. The Bound Man

The man was bound face down to the floor with for separate manacles. His legs were spread eagle with just a little bit of bend in the knee, but his arms were trapped underneath his chest, palms together, as though he were praying. If he put his weight down on his elbows, he could keep his hips flush to the floor, but it was too painful a position to hold for long. If he settled his weight on his knees, he inadvertently pushed his naked ass in the air.

For some time, it seemed, he was alone. He rocked back and forth between his elbows and his knees until sweat broke out on his tan skin and his muscles trembled with weariness. His small movements stopped when someone walked into his limited line of sight. He craned his neck upwards, but he was too close to the floor to see his face, but his legs were bare. A hand stroked his sweat-damp blond hair back from his face. 

“How do you like it?” the man asked, and the prisoner released a shaky breath that he did not know he was holding.

The man dropped to his knees in front of him, bringing his half-hard cock to about eye level. The bound man could now look up at the other’s face. It was almost hidden behind a fall of long, dark hair, but he caught glimpses of ice blue eyes and a cheeky smile as he shifted closer to him. Once again, there were hands in his hair, twisting and maneuvering his head around. He could smell the brunet, an all-male scent that seeped out of his pores and into the blond’s nostrils. He lowered his eyes and looked at the other man through a fan of dark lashes.

When another pair of hands caressed the insides of his thighs, the bound man gasped. He hadn’t heard anyone else come in. He twisted against the hands holding his head, which earned him a sharp slap on the cheek.

“Look only at me,” the brunet commanded, and the blond took a deep breath in through his nose. The hands moved over his buttocks, grasped him by the hips, and forced him to put his weight on his knees. His ass came up, and the exposure elicited a blush from the blond man.

“So pretty,” the brunet laughed. His eyes flicked upwards just as a hand crashed against his ass. The blond cried out at the unexpected blow that was surely going to leave a nice mark. He tried to twist again, but the brunet held him fast.

“If you’re bored, I can give you something to do,” he said, looking down at his cock. The bound man followed his eyes.

“Suck it.” It was not a suggestion.

The blond met the other’s eyes in a moment of defiance before lowering his chest closer to his arms, bringing his ass up further. In this position, he could take the man’s cock in his mouth. Whoever was behind him slapped him on the other cheek. He managed to stifle a cry, and the brunet eased his hold on his head enough for him to bob up and down on his length.

Meanwhile, the hands were getting more invasive. They spread his ass cheeks apart and rubbed his anus. His own twitching cock was left neglected.

His nose was filled with the brunet’s scent as he buried it in the dark curls around his cock. He tried to focus on that rather than what was happening behind him. Fingers slipped inside him and he found himself rocking back and forth again, fucking himself from both ends. The friction of the floor against his cock as he shifted made him moan around the dick in his mouth.

“You like this? You filthy little slut,” the brunet growled, and pushed his head down further, gagging him. Drool ran from his mouth and over his chin. He lifted angry blue eyes to the other’s face and got a wink in response.

His thighs were trembling with the effort of holding him the pose. A hand on his hip stilled him, and the fingers were pulled from his ass. In their place, he felt something broad and unyielding pressing against him.

The dildo was pushed into him slowly, forcing the blond to release the brunet’s cock so he could grit his teeth against the burn. His bound hands twisted into fists as he cried out and dropped his head.

“Come on, you can take it,” the brunet said softly, lifting his chin. He seemed to search his eyes for moment before guiding his mouth back to his erection.

The brunet reached down to play with his nipples while he was spitroasted. The dildo twisted inside him, bringing another moan from low in his throat. It was adjusted until it rubbed directly against his prostate. Every thrust or subtle movement had sweat dripping from his bound frame and tiny pants and sighs from his mouth.

Then the dildo was ripped out of him, which really fucking _hurt_ and had the brunet grasping his shoulders.

“Steve?!”

“Cut!”

“Shit, I’m sorry! He’s bleeding.”

Steve collapsed on the floor and groaned in exasperation. The brunet stroked his hair gently. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Buck, I’m a peach,” he grit out. When were they going to get goddamned professionals on set?

“I’m sorry, Steve,” the director said, kneeling next to his shoulder. She was a petite redhead who very pointedly did not touch him. It was written into his contract that only Bucky could penetrate him, and the other actors and staff tried to respect their relationship.

“I think we got enough to work with. Really hot. Why don’t we take a break for the day and start again tomorrow?” she asked. 

“How about you get someone who knows what they’re fucking doing?” Bucky snapped, already working on the manacles on Steve’s wrists. The blond flexed his stinging hands and waited until the other actor untied his ankles. His ass was sore but it didn’t feel too bad. Bucky got up and retrieved their robes and dropped it in Steve’s lap. He wrapped it around his body and staggered to his feet. It always took him a moment to get out of that space in his head.

“I’m really sorry,” the other actor, Brock, said, not meeting his eye. Bucky turned on him.

“He’s a _person_ , not a fucking lawnmower! Be a little more careful next time!”

Steve gave Brock an apologetic smile and shrugged. “It’s okay. Just hurt a bit,” he said. They all came around to see the footage, and Steve had to agree that it was pretty nice to look at. The director, Natasha, had focused on Steve and Bucky’s interaction. A wise choice, considering they sold the most subscriptions. They were hate-fucking each other with their eyes, and the positioning really worked. Steve was pleased; he’d designed the restraints himself.

“You did a good job, baby,” Bucky said, wrapping his arm around Steve’s waist and leaning into him.

“Sucking you off or on the set design?” 

“Both,” he replied.

“Mm, thanks. Let’s go get cleaned up, okay?”

Bucky smiled at him and followed him into the dressing rooms in the other part of the building. “How you kept that position up for so long is beyond me,” he said. “You gotta be exhausted.”

“I’ll be sore tomorrow for sure,” Steve replied, dropping his robe as he turned on the tap in the wide shower. Bucky took a step back to admire. He had a pretty good view of Steve’s back and ass while he’d been looming over him, but just like Steve, he went somewhere else on set. They were both very successful in the porn industry: directing, set design, and acting—though they had caveats. Steve would only consent to be fucked by Bucky on camera; Bucky did not like to be fucked at all. 

“You think you’ll be up to shooting tomorrow? I know we have that one-legged dangle to try,” Bucky reminded him.

“After being so restricted today, hanging seems like a breeze,” Steve answered, pulling him into the shower with a kiss. The blond was so strong and self-assured; Bucky practically melted into him. His strength was probably why it was so hot to watch him unravel on camera. Steve was a natural submissive. Bucky didn’t know how he did it.

“Do you think you could check and make sure Brock didn’t do any damage?” his lover asked.

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky dropped to his knees while Steve leaned against the wall of the shower. This was not an uncommon scenario. Bucky hated when Steve got hurt during filming, but it happened, given the nature of the work. “Looks okay to me, but I wish people would be more careful with you.”

“I know, Buck, but that’s not really what I’m paid for,” Steve laughed. “I can take it.”

They brought each other off in the shower and then dressed to go back home. Sometime during filming, it started snowing. They were shooting in a converted warehouse in London, and they had a flat outside of the industrial district while they were contracted here.

Bucky hated the cold. He and Steve were originally natives of New York, but Bucky moved to LA for a reason—and it wasn’t to shoot porn. He’d wanted to be a mainstream actor, but the opportunity had never really presented itself. Steve, of course, had just followed him. Bucky had been the first to consider doing porn, but Steve refused to let him unless he was there. Luckily, they looked good when they fucked.

They were almost in their thirties now and talked about retiring as actors completely, but Bucky thought Steve would miss it too much. There was something he got from being tied up and used on camera that he didn’t get anywhere else. That, and he was a goddamned genius with ropes and restraints.

On the ride home in the subway, Bucky tapped away at his phone while Steve slouched against him sleepily. The blond watched the other passengers with hooded eyes. Everyone seemed absorbed in a book or a paper or their phone, giving him ample opportunity to watch. He met eyes with a bookish young man, who was staring back at him like he recognized his face. Maybe he did. He smiled at him and lifted a hand in greeting. The man blushed and looked back down at his phone.

It would never get old to Steve how everyone seemed to know his face but refused to acknowledge it. He wasn’t ashamed of what he did; in fact, he took great pride in his work, but this part did irk him a bit. Everyone jacked off. Some people jacked off to him. If he minded, he wouldn’t do it.

“Quit makin’ friends with strangers, Stevie,” Bucky muttered, ever jealous. 

“Quit playin’ Crossy Roads and bein’ an introvert, Bucky,” he mimicked back, delighted when he got a smile from the other man. They didn’t used to be so hard-won. It was hard to keep the sexual energy high between them when they spent all day fucking, but the affection never ran out. Bucky was very protective and accommodating after Steve had a hard day at work.

Their flat was sparsely decorated but comfortable. All of their furniture was plush and wide enough for multiple bodies, should they be in the entertaining mood. Steve dropped his wallet, keys, and neglected phone in a bowl by the door. “I am going to lay down, though,” he said, really feeling the exhaustion now that he was home.

“Want me to cancel drinks with the crew, then?” Bucky asked, a certain amount of relief in his eyes.

“Damn, I forgot,” Steve replied, slipping a hand underneath his sweater to scratch at his belly button in a guilty gesture.

“I’ll cancel. Natasha will understand, at least. Besides, I think she got roped into inviting that jack-off Rumlow and I could punch his stupid face in after what he did to you. He knows damn well—“

“He thought he was on a pain shoot. Leave it.”

“I’m not working with him again.”

“Fine. We’ll have him fired. I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” Steve said, perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended. But he wasn’t in the mood to apologize so he turned and went to the bedroom.

“Stevie, don’t be like that. Let me take care of you. It makes me feel better.”

Steve bit back a nasty response. He just wanted to go to _bed_. Why did Bucky have to be so obstinate? Brock hadn’t had any ill intentions; he was sure of it. He closed the bedroom door behind him as he slipped out of his shoes, sweater, and jeans. His briefs were white; call him a traditionalist.

Bucky was right on his ass, though. Steve sprawled on his stomach and hugged his pillow to his chest when the brunet said, “You’re bleeding.”

“No’m not.” 

“You spotted through your underwear, dumbass, I’m looking at it. You gonna let me take care of it, or are we going to fight about it?”

Steve sighed and clutched his pillow tighter. “Do what you want, but don’t wake me.”

“I hate it when you get all cranky like this,” Bucky lied. In truth, he liked the antagonism. It kept things fresh and reminded him that Steve wasn’t perfect. He pulled the other’s briefs down over his hips when Steve’s phone rang. Bucky played dutiful husband and fetched it for him.

Steve swiped the green button and held the phone to his ear while Bucky went to get some ointment. “Hey Sam. No, I don’t think we’re going to make it. Rough day at work, you know?”

Bucky returned and spread his lover’s thighs. He’d missed the tear because they were in the shower, but he could see it now. He swabbed it with rubbing alcohol, watching Steve’s back arch in pain, though it didn’t transfer into his voice.

“No, I’m fine. Well, Bucky’s taking care of it.”

The brunet hummed softly as he dabbed it with Neosporin and kissed the crease between Steve’s thigh and buttock.

“He’s not a bad actor, I just think he misunderstood the nature of the shoot. He’s not someone you would work with anyway. I thought you were still on the other side. I didn’t think you were interested in dudes.”

Bucky moved up, lightly kissing his tailbone. _Misunderstood the nature of the shoot_ , whatever.

“Okay, okay, so you were kidding. How is everyone?”

He pushed his thumbs into the small of Steve’s back, making him groan a little.

“Glad to hear it. Give Tony my regards. I’ll talk to you later. Yeah, bye.”

Bucky straddled his hips and kept massaging his way up. Steve was just knot after knot of tension. He had to be hurting him, but Steve said nothing. “How are you doin’ there, Stevie?” he asked. 

“Mm, so good. Don’t stop ‘til I go to sleep.”

“Okay, sugar. I can do that.”

It was all of ten minutes before Steve fell asleep. Bucky walked his fingers down the other man’s spine, dipping into the small of Steve’s back. His waist was so tiny and the curve of his ass so dramatic that Bucky could have (and might have) sipped whiskey from the natural depression. 

He left Steve sleeping so he could whip something up for dinner and go through the mail. It was mostly bills and menus for take aways, but there was a hand-addressed letter amongst them. It was an oddity; if they got ‘fan mail’ it was usually directed through their agent. Bucky held his spoon between his lips as he opened it, even though it was addressed to Steve specifically.

Inside was a single sheet of printer paper with meticulously detailed diagrams of what seemed to be a chastity belt—something neither Bucky nor Steve had ever used, on set or off. Furrowing his brows, Bucky checked the return address.

Who the hell was Johann Schmidt?


	2. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky ready for their second day of shooting with Brock, but things don't go as planned.

The next day, they were back at it. Bucky was so nervous about the scene that he forgot about the strange letter. Steve hung from his right leg alone, bound in a padded leather cuff that covered most of his calf. It allowed him to twist, but not to swing, which would have cased too much stress on his hips. As it was, they were working on a time frame. He couldn’t stay suspended for long. 

Bucky watched as his lover flexed his abs and sat up to adjust something on the cuff. Even Rumlow, who still wasn’t fired for some reason, looked impressed.

“All right, Steve, are you ready to get started?” Natasha called out.

“Just about!” he chirped. He seemed to be way too happy by what had to be a painful situation. Probably because it had looked so great on the screen test this morning.

“Dude, you must spend every day at the damned gym,” Rumlow hooted. 

“Steve boxes,” Bucky answered tersely.

“And what about you?” the dark-haired man asked.

“Sharpshooting,” he snapped. He wasn’t terribly happy that Steve would be alone on camera with Rumlow. Steve flashed Nat a thumbs up, Bucky fell back behind the camera, and the woman called action.

Steve made a show of struggling against the bond, just to let the camera see his furrowed brows and long, lean torso. He let his left leg slip down and open, and for a moment, Bucky could have believed he was filming an aerial silk routine. The camera caught a glimpse of his asshole as Steve allowed his body weight to pull him into a twist. The full view was nothing short of astounding.

Nat waved her arm, and Brock stepped into frame. He took Steve by the hips and steadied him. The smug little smirk on the other actor’s face made Bucky’s blood boil. Nat glanced at him and mouthed, “You okay?”

He nodded. Brock slowly turned Steve around, exposing his front to the camera as he buried his face in Steve’s crotch. The blond cried out, curling up once again to watch as the other man ate him out. “Stop, please,” he whimpered.

Steve didn’t have the same dynamic with other actors as he did with Bucky. With Bucky, he was compliant, greedily soaking in the abuse and affection, but with others, he cried out immediately and pleaded with them to stop. Bucky didn’t think he was entirely acting.

“No, baby, I’m gonna have you dribbling come down that pretty chest of yours.”

Steve closed his eyes and arched his back in silent protest. He hooked his left leg around Brock’s chest to bring him closer while he leaned up and pushed his head out of his crotch. To watch him, one would think he was a gymnast, not a boxer.

Brock slapped him hard across the face. The slap had such a resounding shock that even Nat gasped.

“Cut! Steve, are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he replied, rubbing his cheek. “Ease up on that, will you? A light slap if you have to.”

“Sorry. I got carried away,” Brock explained. “It’s kinda hard, knowing I can barely touch the guy.”

“If you can’t do it, we can replace you,” Bucky snapped. _Like we shoulda done in the first place._

“Let’s just keep going, okay?” Steve asked.

“All right, action,” Natasha called.

Brock came around, standing beside Steve so he wasn’t blocking the camera angles. He dragged rough fingers up Steve’s chest, causing red, angry marks to break out on his skin. The blond twisted away from his hand, which swiftly became impossible when Brock seized hold of his cock. Nat signaled for Bucky to go in and help, because this was looking more like torture and less like porn.

Bucky dropped his robe and stepped into frame. He came behind Steve and soothed him with one hand where the camera wouldn’t see.

“Brock, go lift the restraints higher so Steve is about level with Bucky’s cock,” Natasha directed. He did, but his scowl indicated he wasn’t too happy about it. Bucky dropped to his knees so he could look into Steve’s face as he was roughly hoisted up.

“Look at you, so beautiful. You ready to suck my cock? I bet you’re droolin’ for it,” he said, trying to ease Steve back into the right frame of mind so they could make something usable. He didn’t want this to be for nothing.

When Steve didn’t respond, Bucky grasped his cheeks and forced him to look into his eyes. “I asked you a question,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Steve finally answered, and Bucky kissed him hard—a feat, considering the other man was upside down.

“Good boy.” Bucky got to his feet. Steve now dangled a good three or four feet off the floor. He ran his hands down the blond’s legs, giving his cock a cursory stroke or two for the camera’s sake. He was so caught up in looking at Steve that he didn’t see Rumlow shift in the corner of his eye.

It happened too fast for Bucky to process. The ropes holding Steve gave, and the blond man barely had time to avoid landing on his head before hitting the concrete floor with a wet snap.

“Steve?!” Bucky fell down beside him. He couldn’t believe it—twice on the same shoot? Steve’s eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw locked against the obvious pain he was in. Bucky jumped to his feet before he knew what he was doing and socked Rumlow in the jaw. “You did that on purpose!”

“What the fuck, man?!” he shouted back. Natasha and one of the lighting guys ran over to Steve while one of the other crew called for an ambulance.

“No ambulance,” Steve gritted out. “Someone just drive me.”

Natasha smoothed the hair out of Steve’s face, but kept him from struggling too much. She had no idea what kind of damage had been done, but Steve was flexing his fingers and toes. Bucky had Brock by the throat against the wall, and she was tempted to let the brunet go to town on him. 

“You like pain so much?” he was growling, slamming Rumlow’s head back against the brick wall. “How do you like it?”

But it was Steve who ultimately stopped him. “ _Bucky_ ,” he growled, and redirected his attention. The brunet dropped the other man and said, “I’ll get our clothes. Nat, I’ll drive him.”

“Thank you,” Steve grumbled.

When Bucky was gone, the redhead turned her eyes on Rumlow. “You’re fired. I don’t care what contract you signed, you’re not working on my production,” she said.

The man scoffed. “Doesn’t look like you have much of a production anymore.”

“Get the fuck out before I have you thrown out,” she snapped as Bucky returned, dressed, carrying a pile of Steve’s clothes. The two of them and a few of the crewmembers helped Steve sit up and into his jeans.

“Just the undershirt, maybe,” Steve said with a strained smile. “How embarrassing. I thought I had those ropes secure.”

“Rumlow dropped you on purpose,” Bucky growled. He took Steve’s tank top and slipped it over his arms first before pulling it down his chest.

“I’m sure it was an accident.” But even Steve didn’t sound like he totally believed it. They got him to his feet and into Natasha’s car. He gingerly climbed in the back while his friend and lover took the front seats.

A half an hour later, he was staring at x-rays of his broken clavicle though a haze of morphine. When the doctor asked him how he injured himself, he went to the old standby of “sports.” He’d looked at all three’s grubby clothes and the tattoos running up and down Bucky’s arms and sighed.

Natasha insisted on driving them home. Steve was almost too high too function, and Bucky was furious, so it was a quiet ride. Once Steve was upstairs and in bed, the brunet ran back out to get his prescriptions from the chemist. On his way back, he ran into Sam, who was staying in the same building as Steve and Bucky, which was more of a convenience for the studio than the brunet, personally.

“Hey, man, you guys back from shooting already?” he asked, popping the collar of his coat. Bucky didn’t have time for this. Sam was nice, in small doses. He was an actor in mainstream porn, and he and Steve had this whole flirtatious friendship that Bucky found irritating.

“There was—a thing. Steve got hurt. I’m bringing his meds,” Bucky explained.

“Oh shit, is it serious?” Sam asked. Bucky gave him his best deterrent glare, which Steve said made him look like grumpy cat, in case Sam wanted to come up to their flat.

“Broken clavicle. I’m taking care of him.”

“Quit goin’ all mama bear on me and take me up!”

 _Damn_. “Only for a little while and only if he’s awake,” Bucky sighed. He crossed the lobby to the elevator and waited for the car.

“What happened anyway? Steve’s always so damn careful with his restraints,” Sam asked, rubbing the back of his head. Bucky shot him an affronted look.

“Steve didn’t make a mistake. Rumlow dropped him on his goddamn head in the middle of a scene,” he snapped.

“You gonna kill him?” Sam asked, not entirely joking.

“Think I could get away with it?” Bucky replied.

“You? Definitely. Probably an assassin in a former life.”

Bucky smiled a little at that. The elevator arrived at his floor, and he was more gracious than usual about letting Sam into their home.

Steve was where he left him, propped up on the couch with every pillow in the house. He was dimly awake, and grinned like a big damned dope when he saw them both. “Hey, sweetie. Hey, Bucky.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes when Sam snickered.

“Hey, big guy. They got you on the good shit, huh?” Sam asked. Steve was wearing a brace that looked like backpack straps from the front and had his right arm in a sling. With Bucky’s thick cardigan over his shoulders, he looked like a very robust, very high old man. 

“I guess so,” he replied.

“Heard you were dropped on your head. You know, besides the time your mama did it when you were a baby,” Sam laughed.

“No one ever said that doing porn would be easy,” Steve sighed. “And my mama was a saint, God rest her soul.”

Bucky subtly shook his head at Sam. Steve’s mother was probably a topic left for some time when he wasn’t high and vulnerable.

“That’s rough, that’s rough,” Sam murmured. “Hey, I was just going to get take out. Should I get you guys something?”

“That would be really nice, Sam, thanks,” Bucky replied. Okay, so maybe Sam wasn’t so bad after all. That assassin comment really lifted his spirits.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, patting Steve on the knee as he went. Bucky collapsed down by his feet.

“I’m not gonna be able to finish the shoot, Buck,” Steve breathed, looking down at Bucky through heavily-lidded eyes.

“I think that’s obvious, doll,” he replied. He was somewhat distracted, thinking about all the ways he could kill Rumlow. He’d read about a serial killer in Britain who was caught because he kept flushing victims’ remains down the toilet. He wondered if the plumbing system had improved.

“So how are we gonna get paid?” Steve asked, putting his feet in Bucky’s lap. The brunet started to rub them, despite how dauntingly large they were.

“We’ll design sets or direct or do whatever it is we do. If we get really desperate, I’ll solo.”

“You’ve never soloed.” Steve had, though he preferred it when Bucky was there to dominate. Other men couldn’t get him in that frame of mind or tended to hurt him, like Rumlow, especially when they learned they were not to penetrate him with their dicks.

“I meant do a couple of jack-off videos or something, Stevie. Maybe a bukkake if I’m up to it.”

“You hate those,” his lover grumbled. Bucky’s entire face lit up when he grinned at Steve’s jealousy.

“You could never do a bukkake video if you had to,” Steve said. “You don’t even like _my_ jizz on you.”

Bucky’s silver eyes sparkled, giving him that crooked grin. “I believe I’ve taken it in the face a time or two.”

“Not from ten men at once. It ain’t in your blood.”

The brunet had to agree. Steve didn’t have much of an issue doing it, but Bucky hated even watching it. There was something playful about what he and Steve did, but being come onto by a group of men was just—degrading. Steve got off on a certain amount of degrading shit, though, and that video had made them enough money to put a down payment on a nice condo in Van Nuys.

Steve had lapsed into silence, and Bucky thought he must be asleep. He went back to rubbing his lover’s feet and thinking of how best to dispose of Rumlow. Money was never on his mind. They had secured a very stable position in the industry. They would be taken care of. 

Case in point: Sam returned with food for all three of them and sat down on the floor in front of the couch so they could all eat from the cartons. Bucky turned the TV on, and he and Sam made jokes about killing Rumlow in the ridiculously elaborate ways presented in _CSI:_. Steve didn’t stop them; he was too drowsy.

Sam craned his neck to make sure Steve was asleep. He was sitting with a fork (too white for chopsticks) and a carton in his lap, his mouth open, snoring. “What are you really going to do with Rumlow?” he asked Bucky. “And can I help?”

“I already got him fired; he won’t work in the industry again. It ain’t enough though. He hurt Stevie twice.”

“Everyone loves Steve. No one wants to see him hurt. Not—literally.”

“I don’t think the crew would be up to what I have in mind.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Some gangster shit, huh?”

“I’m from Brooklyn. I’ve seen about every gangster movie ever made a thousand times. Look at me. Do I look like a nice guy?” Bucky asked.

Sam leaned in and took a good look at the other man. Bucky’s long hair was tied back in a messy bun, but enough had escaped to give him that vaguely homeless kind of feel. His gray-blue eyes were wide and a little frantic, and his three-day stubble completed the look. With Steve, he was all smiles and rainbows, but with everyone else, he looked like he was two seconds away from knifing someone.

“Not right now,” Sam allowed. Then he dropped his eyes to Steve’s feet in Bucky’s lap and hid a smile.

“Exactly. And I will kill any person who hurts this man,” Bucky said, pointing at Steve’s chest.

“Can I ask a personal question?” Sam asked, setting his carton of food down.

“I probably won’t answer it,” the brunet warned him.

“What happened between you two that made you so protective of Steve?”

Bucky glanced over at Steve. A muscle leapt in his jaw. “We grew up together. He wasn’t always so big and strong. People hurt him, and I couldn’t always protect him.” _I tried. Oh, god, I tried. I’m sorry, Stevie._ “He learned the hard way how to take a punch. Never ran from a fight though. He just kept going.” 

“It’s hard to imagine anyone hurting Steve without his express permission,” Sam murmured.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky replied, arching his brows. “There’s a reason why we don’t do pain shoots. What we do is about control and trust.”

“I get that,” the other man replied slowly.

“Well, I’m gonna get this guy to bed. You don’t have to leave, but you’re starting to look scared.” Bucky got up and gently woke Steve. Those ocean blue eyes fluttered open, and he smiled up at the other man.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed, yeah?” he urged.

Steve groaned as he tried to move off the couch. In the end, it took both Bucky and Sam to get him bedded down for the night.

“Thanks for your help, man,” Bucky said, offering Sam his hand. He shook it.

 

* * *

 

Although they weren’t filming the next day, Bucky took his time in the shower, carefully washing and brushing his hair, shaving, even putting on a little eye makeup. He dressed carefully in a shirt a size too small that stretched across his wide shoulders and jeans that accentuated the slimness of his hips. Bucky rarely dressed this way, preferring function over form. But today was a special occasion. He left Steve sleeping and went out to meet Brock Rumlow.

The night before, he took Steve’s phone and texted the man. Bucky had been on the receiving end of enough Steve’s texts to mimic his style accordingly. Rumlow had been too easy to manipulate. He took Steve’s phone and read through the texts again.

_Steve: Hey sorry about b today_

_Rumlow: No real harm done. You ok?_

_Steve: Bit busted up_

_Rumlow: You know it was an accident_

_Steve: Of corse but you know how b is_

_Rumlow: An asshole? Yeah. Tell me again why he’s the only dick you’ll take?_

_Steve: To be honest its the only one i know_

_Rumlow: I know you’re hurting but I could change that for you_

_Steve: When can you meet_

_Rumlow: Tomorrow if you’re up for it_

Bucky memorized the address Brock had sent over and set out. He left his arms bare despite the cold, because he wanted Rumlow to see the tattoo on his inner arm that bore Steve’s name. He usually blotted it out with makeup on set because Steve didn’t go by that name in porn.

Rumlow wanted to meet at a coffee bar and probably take Steve to the hotel around the block. Bucky didn’t know yet what he was planning to do, but he had a knife in his boot and a pair of brass knuckles in his back pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more of this written, but I need to revise some things. Update soon!


	3. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky lays in wait for Rumlow and Steve receives weird phone calls.

Bucky waited in the alley beside the café until he saw Brock Rumlow go inside, order, and sit down with his coffee. Then he strode in and plopped down across from him, keeping his body loose; he _was_ an actor, after all. “Hello, _Brock_ ,” he said pleasantly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the other man spat.

“I could ask you the same question, but I already know,” Bucky replied, holding up Steve’s phone. The background was a picture of him and Steve from a party a few weeks back; Steve was smiling while Bucky gave the camera a surprised, wide-eyed grin. He’d been drunk.

“It was you,” Brock guessed.

“Of course it was. Steve uses a lot more emojis.” 

Brock got up to leave, but Bucky reached across the table, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him back into his chair. “No, we need to talk. What I would like to know,” _before I kick your ass,_ “is whether you have a beef with me or Steve. Or is it both of us?”

Rumlow narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue over his teeth without opening his mouth.

“Ah, it’s me,” Bucky surmised. “And what, pray tell, did I do to you?”

The other man opened his mouth to speak when Bucky’s (Steve’s) phone rang. A short animation played on the screen of Steve running his hand down Bucky’s bare chest while the speakers played an old-timey ringtone. “Excuse me,” Bucky said, “I’m apparently calling myself. Hello?” 

“Why do you have my phone and where are you right now?” Steve asked, his voice tight.

“I’m at a café,” Bucky replied, keeping his stormy eyes on Rumlow. In the time it took for Steve to reply, the idiot came to his senses and left the building. Bucky told himself there would be another time.

“Why do you have my phone?” Steve asked.

“Must have grabbed it by accident. You want this chai latte or not?”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks,” the other man said, audibly deflating.

“Just stay put. I’ll be home soon,” Bucky assured him, hanging up the phone with a soft swear. It would be harder to lure Brock out into the open a second time. He stared at the picture of the two of them together for a few moments. It was hard to sort through the feelings he had while looking at his own happy face. He opened Steve’s gallery and was not surprised to find that the other man liked to take pictures of him while he was asleep. He _was_ surprised by how relaxed and happy he looked, though.

While he was browsing, the phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, and neither did Steve’s phone. Still, it could be something important, like someone from the hospital, so he answered it.

“Steve’s phone,” he said. There was a long silence before a German-accented voice replied, “Wrong number. Sorry.” The call disconnected and Bucky frowned down at the phone. The name from the letter popped into his head: _Johann Schmidt._

Bucky deleted the texts with Rumlow and ordered drinks before heading back home. He found Steve on the couch with a tablet on his drawn up legs. Bucky handed him the latte and leaned over the back of the couch to see what he was looking at.

“Nat sent over the raw footage from the shoot,” Steve explained, craning his neck to look up at Bucky.

Bucky watched himself on screen. It was footage from earlier in the shoot. He was fucking Steve from behind while Rumlow kissed him. Bucky unconsciously ran his hand over his mouth in disgust. Still, he had to admit that he looked pretty good. The lighting had sharpened the contrast between the paleness of his skin and the dark ink on his arms and chest. His lips were red and swollen from sucking Steve’s dick earlier, and when he pulled away from Brock, his eyes were fucked out and frantic.

If the way Steve was shifting a little was any indication, he thought Bucky looked pretty good too.

“How’s the shoulder?” the brunet asked with a smirk. 

“Hurts. How’s the hand? I assume you found and kicked Brock’s ass,” Steve smirked back.

Bucky snorted. “It’s just fine and I did not. I found him, but you interrupted and he got away.” 

The blond man turned his head away, that furrow appearing between his brows. “Nat sent over the footage from yesterday too,” he said. “He dropped me.”

“I know he did. You think I’m hiding a knife in my boot and holding brass knuckles for nothing?” Bucky asked.

“Bucky,” Steve said, half disappointed, half admonishing.

“Didn’t hurt him. Yet.” Bucky came around and sat by Steve’s uninjured side. The slightly larger man pulled the brunet close, almost into his lap. Bucky settled his head on Steve’s knees. When he closed his eyes, Steve ran his hand through his long hair. “Remember the first time we got drunk?” Bucky asked.

“Barely,” Steve laughed.

“I poured a little bit of every bottle from my parents’ liquor cabinet into one big mug, brought it over to your mom’s place. We got so drunk. I couldn’t leave your house for three days because I was so scared my dad would find out.” Bucky smiled against Steve’s sweatpants. “You held me just like this even though you were miserable too.”

“How couldn’t I? You looked so sick with those bags under your eyes and that scowl of yours.”

“I thought you said you didn’t remember,” the brunet reminded him.

“I never forget anything about you.”

“Even that one time I got the shits after eating bad chicken at that Indian place in West Hollywood?” Bucky cracked his eye open to stare up at the man.

“Well, I fucked you the next day, didn’t I?” Steve asked. He twirled a strand of the brunet’s hair around his fingers. It was longer than ever, close enough to bring it to his lips, which he did. Bucky remembered. He’d been so weak, Steve had spooned behind him while his dick moved slowly back and forth between his thighs. They had always taken care of each other.

“I miss your cock inside me, Stevie. It’s been a long time since it was just us.” Bucky nuzzled his thigh. “With no ropes or tit clamps or camera.”

“Well, climb up,” Steve said.

Bucky straddled Steve’s hips and rested his head on his shoulder. Neither one of them seemed to have the impetus to push things further.

“I miss you too, Buck,” Steve said. “I love you.”

“I love you too. You and no one else. Til the stars fall out of the sky.”

“You should have been a poet, not a porn star.”

“Baby, you’re the porn star. I’m just a supporting character.” 

“Have you checked the twitter feed lately? People have been begging for you. I’m old business. They wanna know more about the ‘hot inked brunet.’”

“They want to see me like they see you and it ain’t happening. I can’t,” Bucky replied.

“I think you’d be surprised. A lot of guys want you as their dom. Can’t say I blame them.” Steve drew lazy circles over the small of Bucky’s back with his good hand.

“Who’s Johann Schmidt?” Bucky asked.

“I dunno. Why?” Steve nuzzled the brunet’s hair. 

“He wrote you a letter. Had the schematics for a chastity belt in it. And just now, at the café, I think he called you.”

“Well, I don’t know him.”

“Then it’s time we changed our phone numbers and alerted the studio that there’s someone stalking you. Again,” Bucky sighed.

“I dunno, did he sound hot?” Steve teased, and sucked in his breath when Bucky bit his shoulder. 

“Sounded _German_. And if he’d watchin’ your videos, you know he’s into weird shit,” Bucky grumbled. “And—a chastity belt? You’d figure out to get your cock out in two minutes.”

“They are a little played out,” Steve agreed. “Now, are you gonna let me fuck you or not?”

Bucky smirked and slipped off of Steve’s lap long enough to undress and divest the other man of his sweatpants. They so rarely made it to the bed anymore that he knew there was a bottle of lube in between the couch cushions.

“No foreplay? You must be desperate,” Steve mused.

“Don’t take this in the wrong way, doll, but I don’t think you’re up to a lot of heavy petting. As it is, I’m gonna be doin’ most of the work. Like usual.”

Steve scoffed, but let those long, slick hands envelope him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr! stuckypuddles.tumblr.com!


	4. Bucky's Stupid Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky seeks out Brock and Schmidt seeks out Steve.

Bucky flicked his eyes away from the game he was playing on his laptop to glance at the show Steve was watching. Since the injury, the man had been bingeing on old episodes of _How It’s Made_ and _Naked and Afraid_ , and he was currently enjoying a little of the latter. A couple more pixilated than Japanese porn argued over how to make a shelter in some god-forsaken place and Bucky tuned back out again.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered when he saw how the game had progressed without him.

“Gandhi declare war on you again?” Steve asked. 

“With fuckin’ nukes,” Bucky replied. He sighed, shifted to move the hot laptop of his stomach, and put his feet in Steve’s lap. His lover idly traced the tattoo of the Brooklyn Bridge that spanned the top of both feet.

They hadn’t heard anything from Brock Rumlow or Johann Schmidt in over a week, but that didn’t mean Bucky had let his guard down. It just meant that when he let his eyes close as Steve’s fingers traced their way from one tattoo to another, he nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone rang.

Steve muffled his laughter as he handed him his phone. “It’s your mom,” he told him, looking away.

“Hey, Mom,” Bucky grumbled, sitting up. Steve shouted into the phone, “Hi, Mrs. Barnes!”

“Hello, James. Tell Steve ‘hi,’” Winifred Barnes said. 

“She says ‘hi,’” Bucky told Steve. He got off the couch and went into the kitchen so he wouldn’t disturb the other’s television program. “What’s up?” he asked. His relationship with his mother had improved after his father died—funerals tended to do that—but she was always very careful to dance around what he actually did for a living. 

“It’s not too late in London, is it?” she asked.

“No, about eight o’clock. Everything okay there?”

“Everyone’s fine, everyone’s fine,” Winifred assured him. “I just hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

“It’s been busy here. Steve got dropped on his head during filming and broke his collarbone. The production’s been on hold while the studio figures out what it wants to do.”

There was a long period of silence where Bucky could hear his mother try to figure out if she wanted to know how Steve had been dropped on his head. Finally, she said, “I hope he’s okay?”

“You know how he is with pain, Ma. He’s a damned superhero,” Bucky smirked.

“James, language. And what about you? Stayin’ out of trouble?”

The brunet looked guiltily at the employee records he’d stolen from the studio’s office manager on Brock Rumlow and pushed them further under the microwave. “Yep,” he lied. 

“You’re lying. You sounded the exact same when I had to bail you out of jail.” 

Bucky winced. “I ain’t eighteen anymore. I won’t get caught, for Chrissakes.”

“If you have to worry about bein’ caught, you shouldn’t be doin’ it,” she snapped. Bucky said nothing. Nothing his mom could say would change his mind on this one. Rumlow hadn’t just hurt Stevie, he’d done it because he hated Bucky for some reason. Unacceptable.

There was a sigh of long-suffering on the other end of the line. Finally, Winifred started in on his sisters and all the accompanying drama. Bucky sat down at the kitchen table to listen, silently wondering how his sisters and their husbands managed to make a mess of everything. He couldn’t recall having a serious fight with Steve since they were ten.

He had his cheek flat against the table with the phone balanced on the other side of his head when Steve walked in, took his medication, and sat down across from him. “Hey, Ma, you wanna talk to Stevie for a bit?” he asked, just to make it _stop._

“Sure, put him on,” she replied, and Bucky practically thrust the phone into the other man’s hands. After exchanging pleasantries, Steve started in with, “Well, you see, I was doing this one-legged dangle—“ 

“Yes, naked—“

“Anyway, one of my co-stars let the rope slip—“

“Yes, Winnie, on purpose—“

“No, I dunno why—“

“I’ll pass that along.” Steve held the phone away from his ear. “Your ma says not to hurt Brock too badly.”

Unlikely. Sam was driving him over to Rumlow’s apartment complex tonight. He had duct tape and rope in a bag in the bedroom, but he was going to keep all the weapons on his person. He was so lost in thought running through various scenarios that he didn’t notice when Steve ended the call. He did lift his head when the other man laughed.

“This is a cute picture,” he said, indicating the wallpaper on Bucky’s phone. It was taken when he and Steve went to see the Eye of London. Bucky had his arm thrown around the other man, grinning widely while Steve pulled a face. He’d been complaining that it wasn’t near as good as Coney Island.

“You should send it to me,” Steve continued, pushing the phone across the table. Then the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. “You don’t smile a lot like that anymore.”

Bucky shrugged. It was easier to keep Steve safe in their profession if they thought his lover was a knife-wielding psycho.

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe it _is_ time to retire. I know—I know you don’t like this much. We could go back to LA, get a dog or something.”

“I hate dogs,” Bucky replied. “Besides, this makes you happy.”

“You make me happy. If never getting tied up again means I get to see you smile like that more often, I’ll quit in a heartbeat.”

Bucky glanced at him from the corner of his eye to see if Steve was being genuine. Of course he was.

“You could work on your writing. I could take up painting again. We already have a built in audience. It wouldn’t be like we were working from the ground up,” Steve went on.

The brunet licked his lips as he placed both hands down on the table. “Think about this for a week. Let the studio make their decision. If you decide you still want out, we’ll go,” he said. 

Steve smiled at him brightly. “Okay.”

* * *

After Steve fell asleep, Bucky shrugged on his coat, grabbed his backpack, and met Sam down in the lobby. He had a knife in each boot and one tucked into the back of his jeans. And, always, his brass knuckles in his pocket. He was just pulling his hat on when Sam stepped out of the other elevator.

“You have to be shitting me,” the other man said, staring at Bucky’s hat. It was a slouchy beanie, but had a big pom-pom on the crown. It had been a gift from Steve.

“What?” Bucky snapped. 

Sam held his hands up. “Nothing. I just don’t know if you’re going to go teach a guy a lesson or get Starbucks.”

“Why not both, Wilson? Come on, let’s go already.”

It was so cold outside that Bucky’s nipple bars were like ice against his skin, even through his jacket. He only wore a t-shirt underneath because he didn’t want to get blood on his nice sweaters.

Sam had his own car, which they drove through the damp, foggy streets to a complex several blocks away. Bucky felt something like a sexual thrill at the idea of thoroughly fucking Rumlow up.

“You know what you’re gonna do?” Sam asked him, parking a ways away.

“It’s not like a scene, Wilson. I’m going to improvise. Stay here. Don’t come unless I call.”

“Just like work. Gotcha,” he replied, leaning back against the seat. Bucky slipped out of the car and made his way back to Brock’s flat. It was older than the one he and Steve lived in with no doorman besides. He entered and made his way to the third floor. He thought about jimmying the door, but why bother at this point? Rumlow had to know he was coming. He stomp-kicked the door open with the knife from his waistband in his hand. 

“What the fuck?!” Brock shouted from a ratty couch. He had a pretty, young whore on his lap, whom he threw off onto the floor. 

“You never called after our date,” Bucky snapped, and threw the knife. It landed right where he wanted it to: in the fleshy part of his shoulder. The prostitute screamed and ran past Bucky into the hallway. 

“What—“ Brock keened.

“Sharpshooting, remember?” Bucky followed the blade’s path to the couch before jerking it free of his shoulder. It scraped bone.

“Nice hat, by the way,” Brock groaned. Bucky straddled the other man’s hips as he dug his thumb into the wound. Brock screamed and thrashed under him in a particularly delightful way. 

“Gift from Steve. Now, I don’t care _why_ you hate me. What I care about is that you brought such a sweet, innocent man into this,” Bucky explained. He held the still dripping knife to Brock’s throat while he retrieved another from his boot.

“Innocent? Are you fucking with me? He’s a whore, same as you. Now why don’t you crawl down, call me daddy, and I might let you off with just my fist up your ass.”

Bucky drove the other knife between the two bones of Brock’s forearm.

* * *

Steve woke up with a start while it was still dark. The bed was cold next to him, and he wasn’t exactly sure what had woken him. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and took one of Bucky’s knives from the nightstand.

“Buck?” he called out. 

He padded into the living room, brought up short by the figure sitting on the couch.

“Buck?”

“No,” a voice that was decidedly lighter than Bucky’s replied. The lamp beside the couch snapped on and a man with clipped, dark hair got to his feet and turned. He had a long, patrician nose and cruel lips. His eyes were flat, like panes of glass.

“Johann Schmidt?” Steve guessed.

“Then you did receive my letter. Rude of you not to reply.”

“Where’s Bucky?” The blond gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, but his good hand was in a cast and he was still pretty stoned from the painkillers he took at night. Even now, the sight of the man’s face wavered in and out. 

“He left,” Schmidt replied.

Rumlow. It had to be. Bucky had to be hurting Brock. He let his shoulder slump against the door jam. His knees felt weak.

“I am not surprised that you are able to stand after I injected you with 75 mg of sodium pentathol. A man in your line of work takes all manner of drugs, I’m sure.”

Steve dropped the knife with numb fingers. “You—what?”

“I drugged you,” Schmidt explained. He approached Steve and caught him about the waist as he fell.


	5. The Devil

Bucky returned to Sam’s car, shaking and covered in blood. His t-shirt was ruined, and despite the cold, his skin was tacky with drying blood. 

“Shit, man,” Sam swore softly, “you kill him?”

Bucky turned his hands over and over, just barely able to make out the tattoos across his knuckles that read BROOKLYN. 

“Bucky?” 

“I didn’t kill him, but we should probably call an ambulance before he bleeds out up there,” he answered. Sam sighed and pulled what was obviously a cheap burn phone from his pocket. He made the call with a muffled voice and took the battery out when he was done. Bucky thought about the last time he was in jail. _Grievous bodily harm_ had been the charge, but those records had been sealed. His father had paid for the lawyer, and when Stevie had to testify—

“You okay?” Sam asked him. Bucky pulled himself out of his thoughts and looked at him. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He put his hands underneath his thighs to keep them from shaking.

By the time they got home, Bucky wanted nothing more than a hot shower and Steve curled against his side. He’d lost his temper, true. Brock had taken longer to break than Bucky thought he would. He might have severed one (or two) of the older actor’s fingers. It was all disappearing behind a red haze now.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, leaving dirty smudges on his already filthy face. God, he hadn’t intended to go that far, but he’d lost control. Brock wouldn’t _shut the fuck up_. After he realized that Bucky didn’t react to threats against his own person, he’d moved onto Steve. 

And no one threatened or insulted Steve.

At home, the blond was still sleeping. The lights were off and the apartment silent. Bucky slipped into the shower and turned on the tap. The water ran pink around his feet as Brock’s blood was sluiced off his body. When he was clean, he stayed under the hot water, tracing his tattoos, which always relaxed him, especially Steve’s name on his arm. Steve had begged him not to get it (“ _What if it jinxes us?_ ”) but it wasn’t as though he could wear a wedding band with his hand up someone’s ass. 

When he finally came out of the bathroom, his skin was pink and not entirely unlike a boiled chicken. He went to curl up next to Steve, but the blond wasn’t asleep. Had he woken him up? Bucky checked the living room and kitchen, but the apartment was empty. He called Steve’s phone and heard it ringing on the bedroom charger. Then he panicked.

* * *

Steve woke in agony. Pain radiated from his shoulder, probably because his sling and harness had been removed and his hands tied to bedposts—with standard medical restraints, no less.

 _Boring_ , he thought, before he could stop himself.

He could easily ( _ha!_ ) dislocate his thumb and pull his hand free from the restraint, but before he could pop the joint out of place, a voice came from the other side of the room. “Water, Steven?”

“If you think this is the first time I’ve woken up tied to a bed, you haven’t read Bucky’s criminal record,” he replied with a sigh. And what a mess that had been. 

“In fact, I learned everything about you—everything you’re not foolish enough to post on social media, anyway—from your boyfriend. Your lives are written all over his body, including your real name.”

Steve shut his eyes and balled his thumb under his fingers. If Bucky ever found out about this, or that his dedication to preserving their lives in ink had led Schmidt right to him—

“I do not recommend trying to escape,” Schmidt said, prying Steve’s fist loose. “The restraints are not for your pleasure, but for your safety.”

“My safety?” Steve repeated, his eyes flying open. Schmidt was standing right over him, his eyes dark and glassy in the dying afternoon light. Steve wondered if he was on something. He hesitantly pulled at the restraints on his ankles, but, like he suspected, they were expertly fastened. “You’re not the first to develop a—a crush on someone they see on screen. Right now, you haven’t done anything _too_ illegal, but—“

Schmidt shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Quiet, _svinehunde_. Perhaps now I see why you’re so often gagged on set.” His gaze shifted to follow his hand as he traced the plush lines of Steve’s lips, pulling them down and away from his teeth. Steve frowned. He’d been in this situation—simulated and otherwise—enough to at least get a read on the other person, but Schmidt was offering him nothing to go on.

“What do you want from me?” Steve asked, genuinely confused.

“What does anyone want from you, _hure_?” the German replied, his finger tracing a line down his chin and neck to his chest. His touch was light until it reached his nipple. Then his fingers turned cruel as he twisted the sensitive nub until the flesh purpled. Steve bit back a grunt of pain. This was nothing new, he told himself. A little pain, a little violation. But someone would come for him. The blond set his jaw, stared up at the ceiling, and retreated inside himself.

The next hour passed slowly for Steve. Schmidt had nothing in his bag of tricks that Steve hadn’t already tried twice. By that point, Schmidt was getting frustrated by Steve’s lack of response. He left the room, swearing in German, and Steve closed his eyes. His shoulder throbbed along with various other tender parts of his body, and he knew he would be recovering from this for a long time. 

Schmidt returned with another syringe, and Steve would have been grateful for the oblivion it offered if he weren’t so vulnerable. Schmidt used a leather belt to tie off a vein in his arm, and when he slipped the needle in, it burned like acid. 

“What is it?” Steve asked. He hated the tremble in his voice. 

“Bremelanotide,” Schmidt answered brusquely; “it’s an experimental drug used to treat sexual arousal disorder and erectile dysfunction.”

“An aphrodisiac? You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” the man replied. He pulled the needle from Steve’s vein and taped a cotton ball over the wound. It was the first time he’d drawn blood.

Logically, he knew that this was about power. He wasn’t ignorant or naïve. Schmidt wanted to force him to enjoy himself, because it was the only way to truly violate him. He felt the drug hit his brain like a backdraft. Even though Steve was flat on his back, he was dizzy. The room spun around him as his heart rate increased. Dimly, he was surprised he didn’t feel it all in his dick—no, it was actually his skin that became ultra sensitive. Painfully so. Schmidt ran his hand up Steve’s flank and the blond nearly screamed. He could feel his laboring heartbeat in his groin. Even worse, he knew a simple touch on his side would not be enough to bring him relief.

 _Shit shit shit_.

Schmidt tweaked one of his nipples (something he had been more than capable of ignoring before) but this time Steve let out a high, keening sob. Fresh beads of sweat burst on his skin and pooled in the hollow of his throat and his navel. His breath made his entire body heave and strain against the bonds, which, in turn, irritated his shoulder. The pain blended with the pleasure in an ugly loop. His vision grayed and then steadied. 

“Hm, I do believe this is the hardest I have seen this ridiculous thing,” Schmidt noted, running his fingers up the exposed underside of Steve’s cock, which bowed now towards his abdomen.

“Ridiculous?” Steve panted.

“It isn’t as though it is put to much use, is it?” the other man responded. “No, you get much more use out this.” He put his hand between Steve’s splayed legs and slipped a fingertip inside of him. It was still slick from Schmidt’s earlier “play.”

“Ah! Fuck you!” the blond growled. 

“You don’t want me to stop,” Schmidt stated, pushing further in. Steve gritted his teeth. His toes curled. His entire body throbbed, and then Schmidt rubbed his prostate.

When he came, it didn’t feel like relief. And the next six times, they didn’t feel good either. By the end, Steve was both begging for it to stop and continue, until he had no idea what he wanted. 

“Just, please—“ he choked out. The last time, it felt like he’d ejaculated air.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Schmidt said, pleased with himself at last. Then he gave him another shot.

* * *

Bucky had to call in some favors. The London police weren’t about to go looking for a stray American porn star, so he had Natasha call in some of her girls in long enough for Bucky to sneak in to the station and gather some information. At another time, he might have been amused by a group of porn stars picketing and protesting a police station for no real reason in particular, but right now, he was focused on a task. He slipped into one of the detective’s offices—one in which the computer had been left unlocked.

It was a wild guess, but he assumed Johann Schmidt had a record. If nothing else, he might be able to find something on his immigration status or a visa or _something_. It had been twenty-four hours. Bucky _needed_ to get to Steve. His hands were trembling as he approached the keyboard.

Even if he did find an address on this guy (assuming there weren’t 10,000 other Johann Schmidts floating about London like detritus), there was no guarantee that he was there. He could have taken Steve anywhere. And the police were no help—

No, stop. He couldn’t continue with that line of thinking without giving over to complete panic.

He could still hear the protest going on outside, but the porn people were getting louder, which meant that the police were escalating. It wouldn’t be long now.

There _were_ several Johann Schmidts in London, but only one with a criminal record—for assault and battery, attempted sexual assault, and domestic violence. Had to be him, right?

His last known address was in a posh neighborhood in Knightsbridge. Even if Steve weren’t there, there would be some sort of clue as to where Schmidt was keeping him, right?

Right?

Bucky didn’t have a lot of other options. He copied down the address, erased what he could of his tracks, and left before he could be spotted. It would be bad news if he got caught right after he fucked Rumlow up. Still didn’t know what had become of that, but Bucky had left Rumlow’s apartment looking like a charnel house.

He rode the subway to Hyde Park, idly rubbing the tattoo with bearing Steve’s name on his arm. 

* * *

 

“If I untie you, will you be a good boy, _liebling_?”

Steve groaned his response. After two shots of bremelanotide and somewhere around ten dry climaxes later, he would do anything not to have that happen again. He nodded, and Schmidt undid the restraints around his wrists and ankles. Steve curled up on his side, very slowly bringing his wounded arm down, but it was still agony. If he hadn’t already cried all his tears already, he would have cried more. 

“Good boy.” Schmidt ran his hand through Steve’s sweat-damp hair and down his back. “Would you like some food? Water?”

“Water, please,” he begged. The thought of eating made his abdomen clench, but he was dying of thirst. Schmidt left for a brief moment and returned with a glass of water. Steve shifted to take it from the other man, but Schmidt clucked at him and held the glass to his lips.

It was going to be that way, was it? So be it.

Steve drank, allowing his captor to provide it for him. He knew to sip rather than to gulp it down, for fear of vomiting.

“Not too much now. _Gut, gut_. Why don’t you take a shower and join me for dinner?”

“Why are you doing this?” Steve cried out hoarsely, not for the first time that day.

“I told you. I like pretty things around my house.” 

And that was how Steve found himself chained to a kitchen island, sitting at the feet of a madman while he fed him table scraps.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a scene floating around in my head and devolved into degeneracy.


End file.
